It was two o'clock when Sir Henry Wilding's motor turned its back upon
the outskirts of London, and it was a quarter past seven when it whirled
up to the stables of Wilding Hall, and the baronet and his grey-headed,
bespectacled and white-spatted companion alighted, having taken five
hours and a quarter to make a journey which the trains which run daily
between Liverpool Street and Darsham make in four.
As a matter of fact, however, they really had outstripped the train, but
it had been Cleek's pleasure to make two calls on the way, one at
Saxmundham, where the paralysed Murple lay in the infirmary of the local
practitioner, the other at the mortuary where the body of Tolliver was
retained, awaiting the sitting of the coroner. Both the dead and the
still living man Cleek had subjected to a critical personal examination,
but whether either furnished him with any suggested clue he did not say;
indeed, the only remark he made upon the subject was when Sir Henry, on
hearing from Murple's wife that the doctor had said he would probably
not last the week out, had inquired if the woman knew where to "put her
hand on the receipt for the payment of the last premium, so that her
claim could be sent into the life assurance company without delay when
the end came."
"Tell me something, Sir Henry," said Cleek when he heard that, and
noticed how gratefully the woman looked at the baronet when she replied,
"Yes, Sir Henry, God bless you, sir!" "Tell me, if it is not an
impertinent question, did you take out an insurance policy on Murple's
life and pay the premium on it yourself? I gathered the idea that you
did from the manner in which the woman spoke to you."
"Yes, I did," replied Sir Henry. "As a matter of fact, I take out a
similar policy--payable to the widow--for every married man I employ in
connection with my racing stud."
"May I ask why?"
"Well, for one thing, they usually are too poor and have too many
children to support to be able to take it out for themselves, and
exercising racers has a good many risks. Then, for another thing, I'm a
firm believer in the policy of life assurance. It's just so much money
laid up in safety, and one never knows what may happen."
"Then it is fair," said Cleek, "to suppose, in that case, that you have
taken out one on your own life?"
"Yes--rather! And a whacking big one, too."
"And Lady Wilding is, of course, the beneficiary?"
"Certainly. There are no children, you know. As a matter of fact, we
have been married only seven months. Before the date of my wedding the
policy was in my uncle Ambrose's--the Rev. Mr. Smeer's--favour."
"Ah, I see!" said Cleek reflectively. Then fell to thinking deeply over
the subject, and was still thinking of it when the motor whizzed into
the stable yard at Wilding Hall and brought him into contact for the
first time with the trainer, Logan. He didn't much fancy Logan at first
blush--and Logan didn't fancy him at all at any time.
"Hur!" he said disgustedly, in a stage aside to his master, as Cleek
stood on the threshold of the stable, with his head thrown back and his
chin at an angle, sniffing the air somewhat after the manner of a
bird-dog. "Hur! If un's the best Scotland Yard could let out to ye,
sir--a half-baked old softy like that!--the rest of 'em must be a
blessed poor lot, Ah'm thinkin'. What's un doin' now, the
noodle?--snuffin' the air like he did not understand the smell of it!
He'd not be expectin' a stable to be scented with eau de cologne, would
he? What's un name, sir?"
"Cleek."
"Hur! Sounds like a golf-stick--an' Ah've no doubt he's got a head like
one: main thick and with a twist in un. I dunna like 'tecs, Sir Henry,
and I dunna like this one especial. Who's to tell as he aren't in with
they devils as is after Black Riot? Naw! I dunna like him at all."
Meantime, serenely unconscious of the displeasure he had excited in
Logan's breast, Cleek went on sniffing the air and "poking about," as he
phrased it, in all corners of the stable; and when, a moment later, Sir
Henry went in and joined him, he was standing before the door of the
steel room examining the curving scratch of which the baronet had
spoken.
"What do you make of it, Mr. Cleek?"
"Not much in the way of a clue, Sir Henry--a clue to any possible
intruder, I mean. If your artistic soul hadn't rebelled against bare
steel--which would, of course, have soon rusted in this
ammonia-impregnated atmosphere--and led you to put a coat of paint over
the metal, there would have been no mark at all, the thing is so slight.
I am of the opinion that Tolliver himself caused it. In short, that it
was made by either a pin or a cuff button in his wristband when he was
attacked and fell. But, enlighten me upon a puzzling point, Sir Henry:
What do you use coriander and oil of sassafras for in a stable?"
"Coriander? Oil of sassafras? I don't know what the dickens they are.
Have you found such things here?"
"No; simply smelt them. The combination is not usual--indeed, I know of
but one race in the world who make any use of it, and they merely for a
purpose which, of course, could not possibly exist here, unless--"
He allowed the rest of the sentence to go by default, and turning,
looked all round the place. For the first time he seemed to notice
something unusual for the equipment of a stable, and regarded it with
silent interest. It was nothing more nor less than a box, covered with
sheets of virgin cork, and standing on the floor just under one of the
windows, where the light and air could get to a weird-looking,
rubbery-leaved, orchid-like plant, covered with ligulated scarlet
blossoms which grew within it.
"Sir Henry," he said, after a moment, "may I ask how long it is since
you were in South America?"
"I? Never was there in my life, Mr. Cleek--never."
"Ah! Then who connected with the hall has been?"
"Oh, I see what you are driving at," said Sir Henry, following the
direction of his gaze. "That Patagonian plant, eh? That belonged to poor
Tolliver. He had a strange fancy for ferns and rock plants and things of
that description, and as that particular specimen happens to be one that
does better in the atmosphere of a stable than elsewhere, he kept it in
here."
"Who told him that it does better in the atmosphere of a stable?"
"Lady Wilding's cousin, Mr. Sharpless. It was he who gave Tolliver the
plant."
"Oho! Then Mr. Sharpless has been to South America, has he?"
"Why, yes. As a matter of fact, he comes from there; so also does Lady
Wilding. I should have thought you would have remembered that, Mr.
Cleek, when--But perhaps you have never heard? She--they--that is,"
stammering confusedly and colouring to the temples, "up to seven months
ago, Mr. Cleek, Lady Wilding was on the--er--music-hall stage. She and
Mr. Sharpless were known as 'Signor Morando and La Belle Creole'--they
did a living statue turn together. It was highly artistic; people raved;
I--er--fell in love with the lady and--that's all!"
But it wasn't; for Cleek, reading between the lines, saw that the mad
infatuation which had brought the lady a title and an over-generous
husband had simmered down--as such things always do sooner or later--and
that the marriage was very far from being a happy one. As a matter of
fact, he learned later that the county, to a woman, had refused to
accept Lady Wilding; that her ladyship, chafing under this ostracism,
was for having a number of her old professional friends come down to
visit her and make a time of it, and that, on Sir Henry's objecting, a
violent quarrel had ensued, and the Rev. Ambrose Smeer had come down to
the hall in the effort to make peace. And he learned something else that
night which gave him food for deep reflection: the Rev. Ambrose Smeer,
too, had been to South America, and when he met that gentleman--well, in
spite of the fact that Sir Henry thought so highly of him, and it was
known that his revival meetings had done a world of good, Cleek did not
fancy the Rev. Ambrose Smeer any more than he fancied the trainer,
Logan.
But to return to the present. By this time the late falling twilight of
May had begun to close in, and presently--as the day was now done and
the night approaching--Logan led in Black Riot from the paddock,
followed by a slim, sallow-featured, small-moustached man, bearing a
shotgun, and dressed in grey tweeds. Sir Henry, who, it was plain to
see, had a liking for the man, introduced this newcomer to Cleek as the
South American, Mr. Andrew Sharpless.
"That's the English of it, Mr. Cleek," said the latter jovially, but
with an undoubted Spanish twist to the tongue. "I wouldn't have you risk
breaking your jaw with the Brazilian original. Delighted to meet you,
sir. I hope to Heaven you will get at the bottom of this diabolical
thing. What do you think, Henry? Lambson-Bowles's jockey was over in
this neighbourhood this afternoon. Trying to see how Black Riot shapes,
of course, the bounder! Fortunately I saw him skulking along on the
other side of the hedge, and gave him two minutes in which to make
himself scarce. If he hadn't, if he had come a step nearer to the mare,
I'd have shot him down like a dog. That's right, Logan, put her up for
the night, old chap, and I'll get out your bedding."
"Aye," said Logan, through his clamped teeth, "and God help man or devil
that comes a-nigh her this night--God help him, Lunnon Mister, that's
all Ah say!" Then he passed into the steel room with the mare, attended
her for the night, and coming out a minute or two later, locked her up
and gave Sir Henry the key.
"Broke her and trained her, Ah did; and willin' to die for her, Ah am,
if Ah can't pull un through no other way," he said, pausing before Cleek
and giving him a black look, "A Derby winner her's cut out for, Lunnon
Mister, and a Derby winner her's goin' to be, in spite of all the
Lambson-Bowleses and the low-down horse-nobblers in Christendom!" Then
he switched round and walked over to Sharpless, who had taken a pillow
and a bundle of blankets from a convenient cupboard, and was making a
bed of them on the floor at the foot of the locked steel door.
"Thanky, sir, 'bliged to un, sir," said Logan as Sharpless hung up the
shotgun and, with a word to the baronet, excused himself and went in to
dress for dinner. Then he faced round again on Cleek, who was once more
sniffing the air, and pointed to the rude bed: "There's where Ted Logan
sleeps this night--there!" he went on suddenly; "and them as tries to
get at Black Riot comes to grips with me first, me and the shotgun Mr.
Sharpless has left Ah. And if Ah shoot, Lunnon Mister, Ah shoot to
kill!"
"Do me a favour, Sir Henry," said Cleek. "For reasons of my own, I want
to be in this stable alone for the next ten minutes, and after that let
no one come into it until morning. I won't be accountable for this man's
life if he stops in here to-night, and for his sake, as well as for your
own, I want you to forbid him to do so."
Logan seemed to go nearly mad with rage at this.
"Ah won't listen to it! Ah will stop here--Ah will! Ah will!" he cried
out in a passion. "Who comes ull find Ah here waitin' to come to grips
with un. Ah won't stop out--Ah won't! Don't un listen to Lunnon Mister,
Sir Henry--for God's sake, don't!"
"I am afraid I must in this instance, Logan. You are far too suspicious,
my good fellow. Mr. Cleek doesn't want to 'get at' the mare; he wants to
protect her; to keep anybody else from getting at her, so--join the
guard outside if you are so eager. You must let him have his way." And,
in spite of all Logan's pleading, Cleek did have his way.
Protesting, swearing, almost weeping, the trainer was turned out and the
doors closed, leaving Cleek alone in the stable; and the last Logan and
Sir Henry saw of him until he came out and rejoined them he was standing
in the middle of the floor, with his hands on both hips, staring fixedly
at the impromptu bed in front of the steel-room door.
"Put on the guard now and see that nobody goes into the place until
morning, Sir Henry," he said when he came out and rejoined them some
minutes later. "Logan, you silly fellow, you'll do no good fighting
against Fate. Make the best of it and stop where you are."